


Black is the Colour of my True Love's Heart

by glitterburn (orphan_account)



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-28
Updated: 2010-09-28
Packaged: 2017-10-12 06:34:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/121955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/glitterburn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the eve of his sixth WDC, Michael remembers an incident from his past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Black is the Colour of my True Love's Heart

You look at me as if seeing me for the first time. There is judgement in your gaze, a distant wonder as if you can't quite believe that we've come so far. In truth, I am surprised by our success, too. The disbelief I always keep hidden is apparent now that we're alone: no place to hide from that quizzical look; pretence stripped bare in the absence of the media to puff up our importance or to challenge us.

You, me, us… We wear a cloak of invulnerability when we're out there, flinging our lives into the dust that spouts carbon-blackly from the wheels. Faustian is our surety that we cannot be touched by the hand of Death, although we have both seen friends, lovers, colleagues, taken from us so easily. The accident that befell me at Silverstone shocked us both, splitting open the invincible to reveal the fear curled inside us: what if it was more than my leg that was broken? What if my will had been broken, too? Where then would that leave us?

I remember little of the moments before the crash – just snatches of images, the grandstands awhirl in blocks of colour: red, yellow, blue, white – until the motion of the car hurtling towards the tyre-wall blurred the spectrum into one seething mass of grey. Then the car tripped, and I heard Ross squawking in my earpiece, and I felt my blood accelerate to bang, deafeningly, through my head, drowning out his voice.

And then – airborne – I can fly! – for a single moment.

The impact I don't recall. I must have passed out. From the heady thrill of flight to the stark grounded reality… My first thought was of you, and how I had to reassure you that all would be well despite this setback. I lay there in the car, unmoving, listening to the crowd; and then I looked up.

Through the tint of my visor, everything was dyed one shade greyer than it should be. I moved an arm, more to prove that I was alive than anything else, and with remarkably steady fingers I flipped back the visor so I could see properly.

The world sprang into focus. I tilted back my head and the sound of the crowd faded along with the roar of the engines from the circuit scant metres away from where I lay beached. A figure appeared over the armco, clambering over the dark spill of tyres until he stood above me and looked down. I knew it was a marshal, but the light diffused in my eyes and suddenly he seemed to me to be demonic, black against the blue air, the winks of his orange jacket like warning beacons.

And the sight so terrified me that I moved involuntarily within the cockpit, waking pain in my leg, and the feeling   
ran trembling through my body. The figure still stood there, the sun swung into a pinpoint of light over his shoulder, and instead of relief that help was on its way, I felt as if I was being observed, coldly and dispassionately.

He remained at his post as the medics arrived and lifted me out of the car. It was only then that I was aware of the blood, clammy and warm, staining my legs. Ferrari red is famous, its shade recognisable the world over, yet that day it was nothing to the crimson of my own blood that gleamed slow and ferocious. When Syd slipped the needle into my vein, I cried out in brief shock – not because of the pain, but because the marshal – my black-devil watcher – had gone.

Later, when I asked about the marshal, and when I watched the footage of the accident, I realised that there had been nobody there. No figure climbing the tyre barrier and watching over me as I lay helpless. Nobody saw him at all, except me – and you.

I know I was judged that day. The invulnerability I wear has its basis there. I know you understand, although – sometimes, as now – you still doubt it. What if I was wrong?

But I'm not wrong. I can't be wrong. Look how far we have come, you and I, since then. And although you may not like the way some things have gone, you know that I did it all for you. Nobody else can love me the way you do, or forgive me the way you do.

Only you know how afraid I was that day. Only you know what it did to me. My resolution will never waver, and I am prepared – forgiven in advance, even! – to do anything to remain the winner, the champion of the world.

Even if it meant selling my soul.

You shake your head at me – sadly, I think, although I can't be certain – and then you turn away.

The mirror's bright surface is dulled as you leave.


End file.
